


a song i'd heard once in fragments

by howverypeculiar



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Coming Out, Declarations Of Love, Demisexuality, M/M, Questioning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-11 03:53:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10454382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howverypeculiar/pseuds/howverypeculiar
Summary: He has something to address. It makes him agitated. But he’s ready. He has to be. So, he acts it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this can be set any time you like really. in my head it's around the beginning of s2 time, without mary or rosie or unnecessary distractions, but have it however you want. a nice easy way mofftiss could have done it.

Gleaming with raindrops in streetlight, the black cab pulls up effortlessly at 221 Baker Street. Sherlock gives the cabbie the appropriate change and sleekly swoops onto the pavement. The natural gravity of the car’s slant on the pavement along with the vehement breeze tilts the door shut effortlessly. He strides up to the door frame.

_Shit. Okay. Here we go._

A deep breath. Four heartbeats, then his leather-clad hand pushes the key into the slot, wiggles it a bit, and swings the door open. His steps are more brisk and swift than usual tonight. He has something to address. It makes him agitated. But he’s ready. He has to be. So, he acts it.

_Ready._

Since he knows the psychology behind different gaits, - which, in turn, makes John aware - he makes a point of doing his normal, rhythmic, just-got-back-from-solving-a-case footsteps up the rickety staircase. 

Mrs Hudson isn’t in. He’d been out all day, while John was on his day-off. It has to be tonight.

_He’ll actually be up there._

Sherlock recites his originally procured and practised words in his head approximately 13 times before reaching the final stair. He has no time to delay, to deliberate. _Act normal._ He pushes the door to the living room with a single finger. It blows outwards, letting him step inside, as if to welcome him and put him at ease.

 _Where is he?_

_He’s not here. He’s always here? Why am I so scared? It had to be tonight!_

His thoughts come at his brain faster and faster with each second; a crescendo of panic rising in his mind.

Then the sound of the boiler whirring and the shower halting brings him to his senses. He feels he wants to slap himself in the face at the futility of it all. Isn’t John open-minded about it all? This whole gay thing? After all, his sister was part of that ilk.

But, of course, this was different. 

He doesn’t have long to compose himself. Act normal. He unravels the black silk-blend scarf from around his neck and hangs it on its designated coat hook. The long military jacket that could only be his is peeled from his being, ridden of excess rainwater by way of meaningless flapping, and slung atop the scarf. He brushes himself down - as if of the remaining pieces of his grievances - and rests down into the supple leather that has moulded into his figure. 

How desperately he wants this to go alright. _Please, please go alright._

Within seconds he has assumed his customary stance - his legs are crossed, tightening the fabric of his trousers around his thigh. His palms are facing each other underneath his chin. He brings them up a tiny amount, still adjoined. Traces them over his lips, feeling a minute puff of his humid, hot breath bloom on his fingers. And back down.

_Come on…don’t you see the lengths I go to?_

He hopes he’s correct in what he’s about to say, for he doesn’t know thoroughly himself.

In moments, John emerges from the bathroom. Steam curls around the door frame and Sherlock notices how John’s usually tanned face has pinked and glows with the iridescence of cleanliness. 

John is wearing a navy towelling dressing down, not dissimilar to Sherlock’s rather more expensive robe. His hair is clumped in sporadic dampnesses, while the translucent silver tendrils on his upper chest are also coated with a sheen of moisture.

“Oh. Hello. Everything alright?” John obliviously asks. Of course he is talking about work.

_God, you’re beautiful._

“Um, yeah. Fine. Good. We’re just gonna…um…leave it to…G-G-“

“Greg.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, okay.”

Sherlock’s voice is audibly squeaky and dry with nerves. He hates it. John has since wandered into the kitchen, presumably seeking tea or wine. His beverage of choice will probably be decided based on how this goes.

_For fuck’s sake, get the hell on with it._

“Erm, John?” he calls.

_Too loud? Too eager? Not bothered enough? Shit I’m getting it wrong getting it wrong getting it all wrong-_

John peers around the wall of the kitchen, the sash of his dressing gown trailing on the floor, such is his height (or lack thereof).

“Sherlock? Did you call me?”

“Um, yes…er, could you just sit here a moment?”

“Yeah, ‘course…you okay?”

_Deep breaths._

As asked, John is now sitting opposite Sherlock in his chair - his specific chair, warm and protecting and comforting, just like him - that he has occupied all this time.

“Er…I just wanted…to, er…tell you something-“

“Spit it out, Sherlock…”

His heart is pulsating. Tightening. Spiking. Piercing.

“I’ve, um…been thinking about your response…to this…thing…I was going to ask—um, tell you…”

“Right. You’re scaring me a bit, Sherlock. It’s not normally you who’s lost for words, mate.” He laughs weakly. His jaw clenches and he clears his throat.

_He knows._

“Yes, I, er, I realise-“

Shaking. Mouth bitter, dry. Breathing laboured. There’s no way John doesn’t know. He straightens himself upright in his chair and inhales deeply.

 

_Do what you’ve rehearsed._

 

“I’m not sure how feelings work, but you’re really important to me and you make me feel good, so…I think I-“

“Yes. I’m listening. It’s alright.”

Release is like an orgasm. “So I think I might love you.”

John’s countenance slackens. Not droopily, like one has just heard of a death or other tragic news. It’s a sympathetic softening; the edges of concern being worn away and the frown lines smoothed in understanding. A tiny, gentle smile flickers, tempting the corners of his mouth. Sherlock observes, astounded by beauty and this new-yet-age-old feeling he believes is love. Even the word itself is a daunting notion. John opens his mouth, ready to answer, but no words follow.

“John. I’m…sorry-“

“Don’t. Don’t be sorry, it’s, er…”

They look knowingly at each other, their appearances mimicking one another.

“Shit, Sherlock.” John’s cheeks ache and he smirks. He looks down meaninglessly at his bare feet, then the rug beneath them, then back up Sherlock’s body, halting at the face full of emotion.

“You-you know what, Sherlock?”

_Oh God, here it comes._

“It’s mutual. Fully, absolutely…embarrassingly, 100% mutual. I think I might love you as well.”

_He knew. I knew. We both knew, all along._

“John, I love you.” He giggles breathily at the end of his sentence, nodding to the beat of his _hics_ of laughter.

Faces crease and laugh-lines deepen. Their chins rise and they exchange grins. The look they give each other can only be described as knowing. Knowing each other so well that it’s no secret. It never was. And now, it never has to be.

**Author's Note:**

> insp. from oops-prompts on tumblr. "I don't know how feelings work, but you're really important to me and you make me feel good, so I think I might love you." it screamed sherlock from the word go to me and i wanted to divulge. also this is unbetaed except from being proof-read by myself so, as ever, apologies for typos.


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